Edge of the Abyss
by an-extraordinary-muse
Summary: Vengeance, and the pursuit of it, can be a very powerful driving force. When someone on the team becomes a target, they all must band together to keep them safe. Sometimes, the only thing needed for change is a catalyst. Tiva.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note: Hi guys! So, this is my first foray into the world of NCIS fanfic. I'm a big fan of the show, been watching for awhile, but this is the first idea I've had that I considered worthy of following. So I hope you guys like it ... hit that little button down there and leave me a review, let me know what you think. :)_**

**_Spoilers: Set in Season 8, current up to episode 9 but branches off from there. _**

**_Disclaimer: The ones you recognize are not mine. Sad day. :(_**

* * *

She shook the moisture off her coat as the sleek elevator doors slid closed in front of her. She shrugged out of the jacket and slung it over her arm, then resituated her bag on her shoulder. She checked her watch absent mindedly, although she knew that she was going to be the first one there: quarter to six on Wednesday morning. She sighed at that – the week had not been a particularly tough one, but she found herself looking forward to the weekend. She was going to relax, maybe watch a few of the movies Tony had recommended, and just relax in general.

The elevator dinged and the shiny metal doors slid open. Ziva smiled secretively to herself as she stepped out of the small box and headed for her desk. She loved that first sight of the office when the doors slid open, and how comforting it was to walk the same route to her desk. Continuity and routine were not something easily established with the Mossad; in fact, they were seen as dangerous and not to be indulged in. surprisingly, Ziva found that she enjoyed the stability and ease of a routine; she liked knowing what to expect every day.

She let her bag slip to the floor behind her desk and slid into her chair, turning on her computer as she did so. Things had been quiet this week – they had not had a new case since they'd solved their last one, the Friday before. The majority of their week had been spent doing paperwork, which Ziva quite passionately despised. Especially now that she had officially entered "probie" status.

When her computer had run all the customary start up programs, she pulled up her internet search browser. She glanced quickly around the empty bull pen, just to be sure no one was around, then typed something into the search engine. She had started to formulate an idea in the last few weeks, and although she would never admit it aloud, the idea had come from Tony. They'd been on their way out one night, and as they were riding the elevator to the parking garage Tony had struck up conversation.

"So now what?" He'd asked

"What do you mean, 'now what'?" She'd replied

"What are you gonna do now that you're an American citizen?"

"I am not sure I follow the question, Tony. Why would I have to do anything?"

"Don't you wanna chase the American dream, Ziva?" He'd teased, giving her that lopsided grin

"American dream?" She'd repeated

"Yeah, ya know: Nice house, white picket fence, Fido playing in the yard?"

"Who is Fido?"

"Your currently nonexistent dog," Her partner said in his matter of fact way

She'd laughed and shrugged it off, but something about the idea nagged at her. Not the part about the dog – she did not have time to take care of a pet – but the other part, with the house. Curious, she'd begun to research the idea when she was alone.

"Morning."

The unexpected voice behind her almost made her jump, but her Mossad training held her immobile. She had not heard anyone approaching, and was ashamed of being taken by surprise. When she glanced around at the offender, she found a familiar set of ice blue eyes watching her.

"Morning, Gibbs," She greeted, ignoring her hammering heart

"Didn't mean to scare you," He said evenly, heading to his desk

"You did not scare me, Gibbs. Merely … startled me," She explained quickly

He made no response, only nodded as he took a seat at his desk. She watched him for a minute, wondering if he was going to comment on what he had seen on her computer. He said nothing, however, and she closed the web browser just to be safe. Instead, she navigated her way to her e-mail, watching her boss out of the corner of her eye.

Within minutes of Gibbs' arrival, McGee had added his presence to their small rectangle of desks. To Ziva's surprise, McGee set a very warm cup of coffee down before her on the desk, drawing her gaze away from the computer.

"You bought me coffee, McGee?" She questioned, smiling

"It's cold and rainy out there. Thought you could use something warm to sip on," the other Agent explained

"Thank you, McGee. That was very thoughtful of you," She said, taking the Styrofoam cup appreciatively, "But how did you know I would be here?"

"Are you kidding? The only person here before you is Gibbs," McGee answered, moving toward the lead Agent's desk

Gibbs watched his Agent as he stopped in front of his desk, placing another Styrofoam cup identical to Ziva's on the desk with a smile.

"Got one for you too, boss."

Without expecting an answer, McGee then proceeded to his own desk, where he sat down his own cup of coffee and slid his bag off his shoulder. He was feeling chipper this morning, and he smiled to himself as he set about readying his desk for the day.

"You're early, McGee," Gibbs said gruffly

"I'm always early, boss," McGee replied easily

"Not this early."

"And you brought coffee," Ziva joined in, "And you have not stopped smiling."

"I'm in a good mood today," He said simply

Ziva glanced at her boss, but he just shrugged and went back to reading his newspaper. Ziva, however, found that her curiosity was not as easily assuaged.

"Why are you in a good mood, McGee?" She prodded, leaving her desk to stand in front of his

"I'm always in a good mood," He retorted

"Not this good. Spill the milk, McGee."

"Beans," McGee corrected automatically

"Beans are the reason you are so happy?" Ziva queried, confused

"No, you said spill the milk. The saying is 'spill the beans'," McGee explained

"That makes even less sense than the milk."

McGee laughed at the Israeli's confusion over the idiom, causing his counterpart to huff and put her hands on her hips.

"Spill whatever it is, McGee," She chided

"I went on a date last night, if you must know," He said finally

Ziva's face lit up at that, and she threw a glance over her shoulder to see if Gibbs was hearing this. The older man seemed to be ignoring them, however, sipping his coffee quietly while he perused the day's headlines.

"A date?" She repeated, grinning to herself, "What is her name?"

"Who's name?" Another voice asked then

Both Agents looked up to see Tony rounding the corner, and Ziva grinned again in anticipation. Her partner would appreciate the significance of the moment, even if Gibbs did not.

"Where's boss?" Tony asked, dropping his stuff and coming to stand with his coworkers

"At his desk," Ziva answered, but turned to find the other man gone

"He was just there!" McGee exclaimed

"How does he do that?" Ziva wondered aloud

"Sniper training," Tony answered unaffectedly, "So who were we talking about?"

"McGee had a date last night," She said quickly, seeing the spark in Tony's eye

"You had a date, McCelibate? I don't believe it."

"Believe it, Tony," McGee retorted, ignoring the jibe, "And her name is Rachel."

"Rachel," Tony repeated, "Very Jennifer Aniston of you, McFriend."

"I do not understand that one," Ziva said, cocking her head to one side slightly, "But it is a nice name."

"Where did you meet this woman?" Tony prodded

"She's a cyber crimes analyst with the FBI," McGee stated proudly, "We met at a convention a few weeks ago."

"Great," Tony groaned, "Little Timmy's found himself a geekette."

"Would you stop with the names, Tony," McGee shot back, "It's too early."

"Speaking of early," Ziva said then, turning her curious gaze on Tony, "Why are you here?"

"I work here," Tony replied smartly

"It is not yet eight a.m., Tony," She informed him, advancing on him as he back pedaled toward his desk, "You do not work this early."

"Down, Cujo," Tony told her, holding up a hand, "I didn't sleep well, thank you very much."

"Why are you thanking me?" She questioned, scowling at him, "I am not responsible for your sleeping habits."

"Never mind."

"Are you done confusing people, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked then, breezing past them

"Yes, boss," Tony agreed quickly

"Grab your gear. We got a dead Marine Corporal."

With a flurry of movement and the muffled thud of hurried footsteps, the team began their day.

* * *

The office was relatively quiet around them, save for the clicking of keyboard keys as they investigated their separate piece of the puzzle. Marine Corporal Raquel Goodman was so far an unlikely murder victim. The deeper McGee delved into her background, the more confused he became. Although fairly young – Raquel had turned twenty four only two months ago – the young woman had apparently been very sensible. Her savings account had a modest but respectable amount of money, her checking account was nowhere near overdrawn, and her only credit card was in good standing. She had a single revolving payment: the monthly allotment for her 2007 Nissan. Their young Marine was surprisingly debt free.

"I am at a loss," Ziva said suddenly, glancing at her team mates

"You too, huh?" McGee said sympathetically

"I just got off the phone with Corporal Goodman's C.O.," She told him, "According to him, Raquel Goodman was a perfect troop."

"No such thing as perfect," Tony interjected, hanging up the phone

"Then you found something?" McGee asked hopefully

"Nope. Not so much as a speeding ticket. Boss is not gonna be happy about this."

"About what, DiNozzo?"

All three of them nearly sprang to their feet at the sound of Gibbs' voice. McGee quickly hit a key on his keyboard, and the big screen across from him flashed on just as Gibbs stopped in front of it. Raquel's bank and phone records stared at him from the screen, their numbers eclipsed by a photo of the Marine's Active Duty ID.

McGee started to explain his findings, but Tony had blocked him out by the end of the first sentence. He was standing behind the other men, Ziva to his left. His attention was fixed on the photo from the ID, and not for the first time a strange observation jumped to the forefront of his mind: Raquel Goodman reminded him unsettlingly of Ziva. The thought had surprised him at the crime scene, as he was taking photos of the young woman's discarded body. Before the single gunshot to the head that had ended her life, Raquel had been beaten. As he'd documented her injuries on camera, a very dark image surfaced in his memory: Ziva, dirty and bruised and raw, when Saleem had taken the hood off her head. He'd dismissed the memory immediately and made some half hearted movie reference to distract himself. Now, as he stared at a picture that had been taken when Raquel was still breathing, the resemblance between the two women was almost uncanny.

"DiNozzo."

Gibbs' voice jolted him back to reality, and he realized too late that the conversation had died. His teammates were looking at him expectantly, and he wondered how long they'd been standing there in silence.

"Sorry, boss," He said hurriedly

"Something you'd like to share with the rest of the class, Tony?" McGee teased

"Well … it's just that …" Here Tony licked his lips, suddenly and uncharacteristically nervous, "Doesn't she kinda remind you of Ziva?"

"Me?" Ziva asked in surprise, glancing quickly at the screen

"Well, yeah," Tony said, somewhat hesitant

"Now that you mention it," McGee began, looking from the screen to Ziva and back again, "They do look similar …"

Ziva was about to protest when Gibbs beat her to the punch.

"Get on with it, DiNozzo."

"Getting on with it, boss."

Ziva was only half listening, however, her mind suddenly seized on the idea that the dead Marine might resemble her. Raquel's hair was perhaps a shade lighter than Ziva's dark brunette locks, but her eyes were very nearly the same espresso brown in color. Her skin was a bit more pale, the angles of her face slightly sharper, but even Ziva could not deny that there was some resemblance.

The feeling of being watched drew her attention, and she flicked her eyes away from the screen to find Gibbs watching her, those pale blue irises deceptively sharp. He held her gaze for several seconds, then refocused on the monitor without a word.

"Anything to add, Ziva?" Gibbs asked, not unkindly

"I spoke to Corporal Goodman's C.O.," She answered easily, "According to him, she was the best troop a person could have. Never been in trouble, never disrespectful. Only late for work twice in the three years she's been stationed there."

"Overachievers," Tony muttered

"Some of us enjoy being responsible, Tony," She retorted

"Some of us have lives, Zee-Vah," He replied, giving that strange snap to her name

"Enough, you two," Gibbs chided, "Go check out Corporal Goodman's apartment. See if you can find anything to contradict her C.O.'s estimation of her. McGee, track down the family."

"On it, boss," Three voices chorused in unison


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's Note: So I'm not sure if I like this chapter; I have many things that I want to happen, and I'm so excited to get to them that I'm having a hard time not jumping right to them. Also, I forgot to mention that this will be a Tiva story, with undercurrents of the Gibbs/Ziva father-daughter relationship. My two favorites. :) Anyway, read on, and I hope you enjoy!_**

* * *

Thursday found D.C. still drenched in torrents of rain, and a sourness at the edge of Ziva's precariously good mood. She had not slept well the night before, and it irked her to know that their current case was responsible. For whatever reason, she had been unable to stop thinking about Raquel Goodman's body, and Tony's observation that their latest victim looked like her. She could not discern what it was about the case that was bothering her, and she'd spent the better part of the night trying to figure it out.

Frustrated, Ziva stood from her desk and approached the monitor near Tony's desk. She grabbed the remote and flicked it on, calling up the photos of the body from the crime scene.

The office around her was quiet. Gibbs was down with Ducky, and Tony and McGee were questioning a recently ex-boyfriend of Raquel's. She was alone.

Chocolate eyes narrowed on the photos in front of her. She studied the woman's body, face down in the dirt and dead leaves they'd found her in. The body had been dumped in a copse of trees not far from an abandoned farm house, nearly twenty miles from any sign of the city. She studied the position of the body, obviously disposed of without care or concern of being found; she took in the footprints near the corpse, too large to be female. She hit a button on the remote, bringing up another picture. There were tire tracks in the hardened dirt, suggesting that it had been raining when the killer drove them out there. Abby had already identified the tracks as being from Raquel's Nissan Altima; the killer had surprised her, and kidnapped her in her own car.

Ziva pressed the button again, changing the picture. This one was a picture of Raquel's face, frozen in the rigor of death, and she studied this one with single minded concentration. The dark bruise on the side of the woman's head, near her hairline, told Ziva that her kidnapper had struck her. From the pattern of the bruising, he'd most likely struck her with the butt of his gun. Her bottom lip was cracked and swollen, probably smashed into her clenched teeth.

Ziva felt the familiar sting of anger as it sunk venomous fang into her secretly compassionate heart. This innocent, unsuspecting woman had been kidnapped, beaten, and killed. Why? What did this man want, what was he after?

"Everything alright, Ziver?"

This time, she did not jump at the sound of Gibbs' voice. She didn't even look away from the screen; she knew he was there, standing just behind her, and probably had been for several minutes.

"He is a professional, Gibbs," She said softly

"He?" Gibbs prompted

"You see these footprints, here?" She asked, changing the picture again and then pointing at the impressions in the dirt, "They are too large to be female."

Gibbs surveyed his only female Agent, taking in the singularly focused gaze nearly searing holes in the monitor. She had latched on to this; she had taken it and held it close to her chest as if to protect it. Tony had done this, however unwittingly; he had made a connection for her, given her a reason to take this to heart. Gibbs recognized that look; he knew this single minded devotion: he had seen it many times, in himself. His Israeli assassin had a lead, and nothing was going to get her to let go.

"What else?" He asked, moving to stand next to her

"He is … brutal. Ruthless. There are no defensive injuries or marks anywhere on Raquel's body – she did not try to fight him, but he beat her anyway."

The anger seething just under her calm exterior knotted her stomach, but she was adept at ignoring it. Ziva was familiar with this anger, knew it as well as any family member or friend. She had lived with this anger since the day Tali died; it was, perhaps, the only constant she could ever truly rely on.

"We'll get him, Ziva," He assured her

Ziva finally pulled her focus from the pictures on the monitor, and when she fixed her gaze on him he could see the fire burning behind her dark eyes.

"It is too late for Raquel," She said lowly

"But not for justice."

Ziva could only nod and duck her head in response, unsure that her voice would obey her if she tried to speak again.

"DiNozzo and McGee back yet?" Gibbs asked then, switching the focus

"I have not seen them," She replied, forcing the anger away and gathering herself, "But I hope they hurry. It is McGee's turn to buy lunch."

She turned off the monitor and went back to her desk, mind buzzing with possible leads and ideas. Gibbs' assurance that they were going to catch this murderer had helped fuel her drive, and she was not going to stop until she had made some kind of break on the case. Raquel Goodman deserved justice, and she was going to get it.

* * *

Ziva was unsure if it was minutes or hours later, but she only looked away from her computer again when she heard Tony, arguing rather loudly with McGee over something she could not hazard to guess at.

"You chose last week," McGee was saying as they passed her on their way to separate desks

"That was last week," Tony answered, dropping his bag

"Now what are you fighting over?" Ziva asked, glancing from one man to the other

"Lunch," McGee answered, holding up a paper bag, "Where's boss? We got him some too."

"Took you long enough," She hissed, rising from her chair

"Someone gets cranky when they don't get fed," Tony stated, giving her a pointed look as she stuffed a hand in the bag

"You are talking about yourself again, Tony," She responded, glaring at him

"Did you go sight-seeing, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked as he rounded the corner from Abby's lab

"McGee got lost, boss," Tony explained immediately, "We got lunch."

Gibbs was headed for the bag of food when the phone on his desk rang; he grabbed what looked to be a burrito from the nondescript brown bag and hit the speaker button on his phone.

"Yeah, Gibbs," He answered

"Hello, Agent Gibbs," A cool baritone voice responded, "You are a difficult man to reach."

"Who is this?" Gibbs asked

"You do not know? But you have been looking for me, have you not?"

Gibbs was on high alert now. Behind him, his three Agents had stopped eating and were now moving slowly toward the phone on his desk. He paid them no heed, however, his attention fixed solely on the voice. The man was a foreigner, his thick accent flecking the words with a heavy downward drop.

"Who is this?" Gibbs asked with more force

"My name is not important, Agent Gibbs. I am the man who killed that young woman … that young Marine."

The disembodied voice punctuated the word Marine, as if he found it distasteful the way it slid off his tongue. Tony noticed this and glanced at McGee, who had retreated immediately to his desk and began tracing the call. He nodded at Tony, and he tapped Gibbs on the shoulder and then mouthed the words "Keep him talking" when his boss looked over at him. The only person who had remained still was Ziva, who had moved to stand just behind Gibbs. Her face was expressionless, wide brown eyes fixed intently on the black telephone.

"Why? What did she have?" Gibbs questioned

"Nothing of importance," The man answered, unaffected, "She was, as you American's say, a means to an end."

"Then why kill her?" He asked again

"To bring me to you, of course."

"What is it that you want, exactly?"

"Vengeance, Agent Gibbs," The voice answered, and it dripped with thinly veiled hatred, "A life for a life."

"Who's life?"

There was a very pregnant, very loaded pause. The gut instinct that Gibbs had spent years cultivating told him that things had just gone horribly, terribly wrong. Whoever this man was, and whatever he wanted, they had somehow just entered into a deadly game of cat and mouse.

"I am here for Ziva David."

The words hung in the air like an anvil tethered precariously to a very fine thread. The other line went dead, but it went unnoticed. Ziva could not tear her gaze away from the phone, even though she was acutely aware of three pairs of eyes trained solely on her. She could think of nothing but the thickly accented voice, the hatred in his tone as he'd dripped venom through the phone line. He had killed Raquel because he knew that her murder would fall under their jurisdiction, that it lead them to him. That young woman had died because of her, no matter how indirectly, and the knowledge only incited that slowly simmering anger.

"Did you get the trace, McGee?" Gibbs barked

"Yeah, boss. Call came from a burn phone, I'm triangulating …"

"Just do it, McGee," The older man barked again

McGee hit several keys in rapid fire succession, but Gibbs had turned his attention to his newest Agent. She had not moved from her spot near his desk; her whole body was tense, as if she were just waiting to spring into action. Gibbs snapped his fingers loudly, the odd sound so out of place that it drew the woman's attention.

"Focus, Ziva," He instructed, but his tone was not harsh

Tim was about to call to his boss when something out of the ordinary caught his eye. A stark white envelope, unstained and unassuming, that had escaped his notice until that very moment. Tim was meticulous both at home and at work – he made it a rule to never leave his desk untidy. He knew, without a doubt, that the offending white envelope had not been there before he and Tony had left. Without taking his eyes off the object, McGee pulled a latex glove out of his jacket pocket. He pulled the glove over his hand, and then reached for the paper. He pulled it closer; it was addressed to him, his last name written in all capital letters. He flexed the envelope, noting the way it resisted ever so slightly. Whatever was in there, it was more than basic paper.

Slowly, he pulled the flap open with very precise movements, holding his breath without realizing that he had done so. There was only one thing in the envelope, what appeared to be a picture; he readied himself for anything, because he could not even begin to fathom what the picture could be of.

McGee flipped the picture over.

His breath left him in an audible whoosh. He felt the heat and color as it drained out of his already pale face; he struggled to make a sound, but his voice felt trapped in his throat. Even his voice would obey, he doubted that he could form any words.

"McGee?" Tony asked suddenly, noticing the other Agent's pallor

Gibbs spun to face the tech wizard, immediately taking in the ghostly white shade of Tim's face and the photograph still clutched in his hand.

"What is that, McGee?" He demanded

Gibbs crossed the gap between them in two quick strides, whisking the photo out of McGee's loosened grip. For the first time in a long time, Leroy Jethro Gibbs found himself completely at a loss.

Over his shoulder, Tony could only stare. Ziva stared back at him from the photo, one eye swollen shut and red from her hairline down to an area below her cheekbone. Blood was smeared from her lip down to her chin, the dark red of dried mixing with the fiery red of fresh. This was Somalia, this was Saleem's work. There was no mistaking the timeline or the culprit, but how had this picture gotten here? The reality of what Ziva had endured all those months, captured and tortured, froze the air in his lungs.

Ziva stared at the three of them, each suddenly rendered immobile, and her mind was suddenly raising red flags. She started toward them, only to stop when Tony suddenly rounded on her, his usually expressive face strangely unreadable.

"Ziva," He breathed, and her name sounded more like a desperate plea

Her observant brown eyes flashed from the stricken expression on her partner's face to the object held in Gibbs' hand. Her eyes narrowed instantly; surely that could not be what she thought it was?

When Gibbs turned to face her, it looked as if he'd suddenly aged ten years in the span of mere moments. Those piercing blue eyes were searching her, but the silence around the small team only thickened. She glanced from her boss, to McGee, and to Tony; three sets of eyes focused entirely on her, filling her with the sudden urge to fidget. The urge died, however, when her suspicions were confirmed.

Clutched in her boss' hand was a picture she had never known was taken.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed so far! I'm glad that you are enjoying this little piece of fiction. :) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next installment - we get our first Abby appearance! Woot. Be sure to hit that little review button down there and let me know what you think. Happy reading!_**

* * *

Ziva paced.

She was lost to herself, drowning in the myriad of winding thoughts that fired along the synapses of her brain. She could not focus on just one thought, no matter how she tried. She had trained herself to be focused, driven, and even single minded in the pursuit of her job; none of that seemed to matter at the moment. Her mind refused to be directed, her thoughts unbridled as they cascaded around her head. She could still hear that man's voice on the phone, claiming vengeance against her.

Her pacing was halted by a hand, suddenly extended in her direction with an offered cup of coffee. When she glanced up from her folded arms, her eyes found Tony's face. His expression was serious, far removed from the usual teasing one he wore. She glanced at the Styrofoam coffee cup, then back to his face.

"It is late, Tony," She said softly, "I do not think that coffee is a wise choice."

"Tea," He explained simply, "Thought it might help."

She watched him for a few seconds more before taking the proffered beverage. The jokes and teasing and general easiness that usually surrounded her partner like a thick fog was now absent. He was watching her closely, as if he thought she might just disappear any moment. She found it … disconcerting to be the receiver of such scrutiny, such watchfulness. Especially from Tony DiNozzo, who was rarely ever serious about anything.

"How you holding up?" He asked then

"I am fine, Tony," She replied automatically, "I just want to catch this guy."

"We will," He assured her, "We always do."

He moved away from her, back to his desk. She followed him with her eyes, studying him even as she took a drink of her tea. The deliciously sweet, yet somewhat spicy tang of Chai tea coated her tongue, and she could not resist a smile. She had only recently discovered this drink, and had deemed it her favorite almost immediately. She was touched that Tony would remember such a small detail.

A loud popping noise drew her attention in the direction of McGee's desk, and she watched as he rotated his neck the opposite way; the result was another set of loud popping sounds, and she cringed slightly at the sound.

"Are you alright, McGee?" She asked

"What?" Tim answered, surprised by her question, "Oh yeah, good. I'm good."

He was lying, and she knew it. He was tired – they were all tired. Midnight had crept up and overtaken them already, but still they continued to work. Several soda cans littered McGee's desk, along with a long empty coffee cup; Tony's desk looked similar, only with a few less cans. The rest of the bull pen was empty, their counterparts having retired to their homes hours ago. Ziva had confronted Gibbs, asked very pointedly that he let them go home already, and had been surprised to find that he was not the one keeping them there. All three of them, her friends and coworkers, had stayed of their own accord. She was speechless, and bothered that she was the reason that they were not sleeping. Especially since this was not a big deal – the murdering bastard would come after her, and she would dispatch him easily. End of case. She would have her justice for Raquel Goodman, and his death would be warranted.

Like a midnight wraith on diaphanous wings, Gibbs appeared next to McGee's desk with no warning. Even now, in the deepest part of the night, he looked wide awake and alert. This had always fascinated Ziva; did the man even need sleep?

"Go home," Gibbs said evenly, the bite gone from his words, "We'll start again in the morning."

"Boss …" Tony began to argue, but a withering look from the other man cut him short

"We can't help anyone if we're falling down in exhaustion," He said wisely

"Yes, boss," Tony agreed

Ziva began to gather her belongings, grateful that Gibbs had finally forced them to leave. A good night's rest would put everything into perspective for them, and when they came in tomorrow they would all see that she was right, and that this was just like any other case.

Unlike most nights, however, they each waited for their counterparts to gather their belongings and shut off desk lamps. The four of them walked to the elevator together, something they rarely did at the end of the night as they headed home. She was not sure why they went together, but she secretly liked the feeling of belonging that blossomed in her chest as a result.

"It is your turn to bring coffee tomorrow, Tony," Ziva said easily, as if it were any other night

"Oh no," Tony retorted, the first hint of teasing in his voice in what felt like hours, "I got it yesterday."

"You haven't got coffee since last week, Tony," McGee joined in, "Ziva's right. It's your turn."

"Thanks for the help, McTraitor," He snarled at the other man

Ziva smiled. She was almost to her car, so she said her good night's and then branched off toward the small red Mini Cooper. She fished the keys from her bag, then hit the automatic unlock button and laughed when the loud beep made Tony jump as he passed. She tossed her bag into the passenger seat easily, still grinning to herself that she had startled Tony, when she glanced up to see Gibbs watching her. He was parked two cars away, and he had his door open as if he had been about to get it when something stopped him.

"Gibbs?" She asked softly, seeing the pensive look on his face

"If you need anything, Ziver," He told her, the rest of the sentence implied

"I will be fine, Gibbs," She hedged, and then added when he gave her that pointed stare, "But if I need anything, I will call."

He nodded minutely, in that almost hidden nonverbal way of approving that he had seemingly perfected over the years. She watched him slide into the driver's seat, then followed suit when he'd started his engine. She listened as the engine turned over, and then took a minute to fiddle with her stereo. She had recently begun to experiment with some of the different American music genres, and now made sure to set her iPod to something she found … soothing.

She reversed out of her parking spot and then slid the shifter into drive, waving to McGee as she rolled past on her way out of the lot. She pointed her car in the direction of her apartment, and soon found herself headed home on autopilot.

Her mind was busy the entire drive home, running over crime scene photos and possible leads and that cryptic phone call relentlessly. She found herself parked outside her apartment sooner than expected, and made her way inside from muscle memory alone. She was preoccupied; she was running through a list of ways to draw this man out, to draw him to her so that she could eliminate the threat. She was sure that if she came up with a good plan, a logical means to an end that allowed them to catch the perpetrator, she could talk Gibbs into following through with it. After all, Ziva was a skilled assassin, with a lifetime of the best training Mossad had to offer. She was a weapon in and of herself.

She tossed her bag onto one of her kitchen chairs, and then moved to grab a bottle of water from her fridge. Now that she was home, she did not feel as tired as she had in the office. This was a problem, she knew, because she could not afford to bring less than her best to work in the morning.

Sighing in open frustration, Ziva headed for her couch instead of her bedroom. Perhaps a movie would help relax her enough to fall asleep.

* * *

Tony was determined to appear as unaffected by all this as he possibly could. He could not hide the dark circles under his eyes, the evidence of a sleepless night, but he had already formed several defenses and deflections in his mind to toss at anyone who asked. Not that he was the only one with dark circles under their eyes; McGee looked as though he'd caked on layers of eyeliner, only to smudge them with the pad of his thumb. Ziva looked only slightly better, and Gibbs … well, Tony was certain the man never slept.

The elevator dinged and Tony strode confidently out, a smile splitting his face as he strolled into Abby's lab. Her music was at a bearable level today, a good indicator that she was in a pleasant mood today.

"Hey, Abby," He said brightly, loud enough to carry over the music

Abby Scuito spun on her heel, and Tony's smile faltered when he saw the positively irate expression on the usually bouncy Goth's face. Apparently, the loudness of her music was not a good indicator of her mood today – he was in for an earful.

"How can you be chipper at a time like this, Tony?" She accused

"Time like what?" He asked, feigning innocence

"A time when there's some psycho out there looking for Ziva," Abby shot back, propping one hand on her hip, "Don't play dumb with me, Tony."

He tried to hold the façade, but felt it slipping away beneath Abby's dreadful stare. Of course she would know about the phone call – he had no idea how or where she got her information, but Abby always knew what was going on. Not only was their resident forensic scientist brilliant, she was also very perceptive. A trait that, sometimes, drove Tony utterly crazy.

"Ziva's fine, Abby," He assured her then

"And she better stay that way," Abby warned

_No one wants a repeat of Somalia._ The words were unspoken, but they hung in the air between them as surely as the air they breathed. Tony could tell by the look on Abby's face that she was thinking the same thing, and he was glad she did not voice the sentiment. He was trying not to remember that trip to Somalia; he was trying not to remember the photograph left on McGee's desk, of a beaten and bloody Ziva.

"She will," He said simply

"Good. Now what do you want?" She queried, slipping right back into her usual persona

"Came to see if you got anything off Corporal Goodman's clothing."

"Well, there wasn't much. I was able to pull a partial thumb print off the car keys you brought me; I'm running it through AFIS now."

"Any hits?"

"None so far," She said, turning to her computer as Tony moved to stand next to her, "But that doesn't mean that there won't be a match. You're early, so I don't have much."

"Yeah, I just needed to get away from my desk for a minute," He admitted, somewhat sheepish, "Gibbs is talking to Raquel's mother now."

"That is one part of your job I could never do," Abby said sympathetically, "So how's Ziva taking everything?"

"Like Ziva," He answered with a sigh, "If it's bothering her, she's not showing it."

"Sounds like our ninja. She should really try playing poker."

Tony chuckled at the thought of Ziva in a casino. She'd probably do great at poker, if the terms and idioms associated with the game didn't confuse her to the point of distraction. His partner had perfected the art of being unreadable, a skill that he both admired and despised. He'd always had a hard time trying to figure out what she was thinking or feeling; although he liked to believe that he was getting better at reading her as time wore on. Not that the credit was due entirely to him; Ziva David had changed in her five years with the team, no matter how subtle the effects had been. She seemed … softer, somehow. Less abrasive.

"I should probably get back upstairs, before boss comes looking for me," Tony said into the companionable silence

He gave Abby a departing smile, which she returned, and then retreated wordlessly out of the lab. He needed to focus; they had a job to do, and a killer to catch. Never mind the fact that every time he looked at Ziva now, he wondered what kind of hell she had endured all those months before they'd rescued her.

He hit the elevator UP button and waited for the silver doors to slide open, allowing him entrance. As the electric car ascended, the backlit numbers turning green as it went, Tony wracked his brain for ways to catch this guy. The sooner they could end this, the better off everyone would be. Poor McGee still looked pale around the edges, and Tony would have bet that he too was trying to forget the hated picture that had somehow found its way to him. Gibbs had confiscated the picture, but Tony doubted that it made any difference. The image was burned into his mind, and most likely everyone else's.

The elevator deposited him on the desired floor, and he rounded the corner to his desk just seconds before Gibbs rounded the corner from the opposite way.

"Taking a break, DiNozzo?" The lead Agent queried

"Just came back from Abby's lab," Tony answered, "She's still running the thumb print through AFIS."

"I think I've got something, boss," McGee chimed in then, flashing a photo onto the big screen

"You think or you know, Tim?"

"I know," McGee corrected himself, standing as his counterparts gathered around the screen, "This is a photo from a traffic camera. I've enhanced the image and zoomed in on the driver. Now, the time stamp on this says 18:22 Monday evening."

McGee enhanced the blurry gray photo, until they were looking directly in the front windshield. There was no sign of Raquel Goodman in the car, but the camera had captured her killer.

"Now I know it's pixelated and hard to see, and I can't clean it up any better than this, but it gives us an idea who we're looking for."

The man had short, close cropped hair, and though the photo was not very clear, Tony was willing to surmise that he was fairly tall.

"I recognized the accent," Ziva said then, adding her part, "At first I thought it was Israeli, but when I listened again I was able to pick up a slightly different intonation of the words."

"So he's not Israeli?" Tony prompted

"Jordanian," Ziva answered assuredly

Ziva's desk phone chose that moment to start ringing. She excused herself and stepped across the gap to grab the receiver, holding it to her ear but keeping her gaze on the monitor.

"Agent David," She said distractedly

"Shalom, Ziva," A heavy voice answered

All distraction disappeared at the heavy inflection of the man's accent; the very man they were looking for was on the other end of the phone line – again. She grabbed a pencil that lay forgotten on her desk and half turned, tossing the object at Tony's head.

"What the …?" Tony exclaimed, turning toward her

Ziva made a face and pointed animatedly at the telephone, mouthing the words "it is the killer". Tony fell serious immediately, and she watched him tap Gibbs on the shoulder. Satisfied that she had gotten their attention, she turned hers back to the voice on the telephone.

"You know my name, but I do not know yours," She said casually

"My name is not important," The man answered evasively

"Then what shall I call you?"

"Whatever you like."

She glanced toward her teammates just in time to see Gibbs moving toward her; McGee was seated at his desk, undoubtedly tracing the call. Tony, who stood over McGee's shoulder, waved his hand in a circular motion clearly meant to tell her to keep him talking. She nodded to let him know that she understood; when she looked away from Tony she found Gibbs standing next to her, reaching out to hit the speaker phone button. She pulled the receiver away from her ear, but did not dare set it down on the desk in the event that her caller might hear.

"Tell me, Ziva," The man continued, "Did your Agent McGee enjoy the picture I sent him?"

Ziva narrowed her eyes at the question. The man's voice dripped with malicious satisfaction, and she fought the urge to glance around at McGee. She hoped that neither he nor Tony could hear the conversation, but she knew that she was going to have no such luck.

"I was not aware that any pictures had been taken," She said in a cool tone

"It is amazing what people are unaware of when they are unconscious," The voice answered cryptically

Beside her, Ziva did not miss the subtle clenching of Gibbs' fist. She glanced quickly from the movement to his face, but those ice blue eyes were as impassive as ever.

"If it is vengeance you want, why not come and get it?" She asked as threateningly sweet as she could

"Oh, there will be plenty of time for that, Ziva," The other man answered, and he actually chuckled, "But not now. I just wanted to call to compliment you, after all, on your choice of car. Red suits you, I think."

Just like that the line went dead, and she was left standing there staring daggers at her telephone for what felt like an endless moment.

"He knows your car," Tony said quietly from behind her

She spun to see that he had split the distance between them in half. She held his gaze, wishing she could think of something to say to defuse the situation, but coming up blank.

"Did you get the trace, McGee?" Gibbs snapped, his tone terse

"Same burn phone as last time, boss," McGee answered, "Only this time we got his location."

"Where?"

"About six blocks from here."

"Tony, take McGee and check it out …"

"Do not bother," Ziva interrupted, "He is gone."

Tony glanced from Gibbs to Ziva; he was about to head for his bag and call for McGee when Gibbs changed his mind.

"You go nowhere outside this building alone," He said sternly, looking only at Ziva, "And your car stays where it is."

"Gibbs," She protested, "There is no need. I will be fine."

"Nowhere," He repeated, "And that includes home. McGee!"

"Yeah, boss?"

"You're on first watch."

Ziva glanced from one man to the other, her eyes finally coming to rest on Tony. The way he was looking at her, she did not doubt that he agreed fully with Gibbs' decision to put her under guard. She wanted to point out that there was no need for the security measure, that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, but she doubted that her words would have any impact. This man was playing mind games with them; he must have been there in Somalia, with Saleem. He had inside knowledge, and he was using it to goad them on.

He had the one weapon that Ziva could do nothing against.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: Holy crap, it's been forever since I updated this puppy! There are many reasons for that, none of which bear repeating, so let me just say that I'm back! For anyone who is reading Wounded Hearts, I haven't stopped working on/updating that one - I'm just pushing my luck and trying to work on several projects at once. I know, I know, bad idea. Anyway, this chapter is a little shorter, but that doesn't mean it's not important. And that's enough of a rant for now; read on, and enjoy! I look forward to hearing what you think!**_

* * *

Ziva had learned early on in her life what it felt like to be watched, and had long ago grown accustomed to the feeling of eyes following her movements. When she was younger, it had been her siblings and her mother – even sometimes her father – doing the watching; after the loss of her sister, the eyes had belonged to bodyguards and then, later, to the people within the Mossad structure who had a vested interest in her progress.

Tonight, the watchful eyes belonged to one Timothy McGee.

He had pulled "first watch", as Gibbs had deemed it, and her boss had remained steadfast as she threw every protest that she could think of at him. He would not be swayed (which was really not surprising) and had sent McGee home with her as soon as she'd admitted defeat. She had won one small victory, however, in pointing out that since he insisted that she never go anywhere alone, they at least did not have to switch out every few hours. Ziva had put her foot down on that one: she would agree to let them take up this surveillance so long as Gibbs agreed that the watches lasted all night rather than a few hours. That way – she hoped – whoever had the misfortune of pulling guard duty could at least relax and maybe even get some sleep.

McGee had been mostly quiet in the hours since they'd left the bullpen and he'd driven her home. She had been content with the silence at first, but then the staring had started. He didn't try to be coy or secretive about it, the way that Tony probably would have, and the few times that Ziva actually met his eyes the look in them weighed heavily on her.

"What, McGee?" Her voice was perhaps a little more harsh than she'd intended, but it was nearly ten-thirty at night and the feeling of being watched was starting to wear on her.

"Is it worse to survive?"

His question brought her up short. She cut her eyes toward him where he sat on her couch, forgotten mug of tea in one hand. His bright blue eyes, the same ones that had been tracking her for hours, were honest and questioning in a way that Ziva had come to expect from McGee. In many ways, Tim reminded her of a younger sibling; if she were being honest and had to assign him a role, it would be that of her little brother. She did not understand his question, however, and there was something about it that made it seem dark around the edges.

"I do not understand."

He licked his lips in a way that she had come to understand meant that he was nervous or unsure. "We … I didn't know. When Gibbs told us that ship went down and that you were gone … it was miserable, Ziva, but I could have come to terms with it, because I thought you were in a better place. Seeing that picture … seeing that you survived the wreckage only to land in the hands of someone like Saleem … being tortured … I can't help but wonder if death wouldn't have been a mercy."

Something about the look she gave him must have frightened him, or perhaps it was just that the sound of his words caught up to him only when he stopped speaking; either way, his cheeks blushed and he started to stammer as he tried to backtrack and tell her that he wasn't saying he wanted her to die or that he wasn't glad that she was alive or …

Ziva alleviated his rambling horror by holding up one hand and offering him a small and somewhat sad smile.

"It is alright, McGee," She said calmly. "I understand what you are asking now. I would be lying if I said that I did not wish for death during my time in Somalia." She paused here, partly to gather her thoughts and partly to try to decide just how far to take her honesty. This was not a conversation she had ever expected to have, and although it now seemed like something she could not avoid that did not mean that she had to reveal everything. The truth, the gory details and macabre thoughts that had filled her months in Somalia did not need to be relived or rehashed, especially to someone who she knew would only be harmed by the knowledge. Still, this was Tim, her teammate and friend of five years – he deserved a little truth.

"When Saleem pulled that sack off my head and I realized who I was looking at, my first reaction was that of fear. I thought that perhaps I had already died. When it became clear that I was indeed still alive … the decision to return home with you was perhaps one of the hardest I have ever made, and yet it was the only one imaginable."

She had sat across from him on her couch just after he'd asked his question, and now the somewhat hurt expression on Tim's face had her reaching out to touch his knee in reassurance.

"I did not think that I deserved to be saved, Tim," She said softly. "But the thought of not returning home – to D.C to the only people I truly consider family – was unbearable. Death may have been a mercy in that situation, but it is one that I am thankful I was not shown."

She knew that he understood by the softening of his eyes and the way his mouth twitched from a tense straight line into the hint of a smile.

"I'm thankful for that too. And we're gonna catch this guy, for what he did to Raquel Goodman and what he's trying to do to you."

"I know." She smiled at him and gave his knee a squeeze before grabbing his mug and rising off the couch. "Catching the bad guys is what we do, no?"

He relaxed into her couch cushions then, obviously more at ease now that he had finally managed to speak his mind. Ziva padded quietly into her kitchen, her heart warm as she considered what a truly sweet, genuine man Timothy McGee was. He was probably the most unlike her and the other two members of their team, and she had to say that it was probably one of the things she loved most about him. He was the perfect foil for the darkness and cynicism that the rest of them brought to the table, and a daily reminder to her that there was still some goodness in the world.

Tender, honest, kind-hearted McGee; her affection for him had come naturally and almost immediately upon meeting him.

She still maintained that the watch detail was not necessary, but she would not deny that it was nice to have the company of a friend.

* * *

Five a.m. came on the heels of incessant chirping radiating from the area of her phone. She was so accustomed to the routine that she had rolled out of bed and silenced her alarm before her eyes were even fully open. The perk to having such a set routine was that she went about it almost completely on autopilot.

Ziva hated waking up early almost as much as she hated running. Tony had often accused her of deriving some sort of "sick pleasure" from running long distances, but the truth was simply that running had been drilled into her many years ago. No matter how much she hated it, she couldn't deny that the health benefits were worth the effort. Running wasn't her favorite thing, but as long as she kept up with it then it was never truly difficult for her; besides, she hated to admit it, but she had found that running often helped clear her head.

So it was that just after 0510 she was putting the finishing touches on her ponytail as she emerged from her bedroom, fully attired and prepared for her run.

Ziva nearly tripped in surprise at the sight of a fully awake, similarly attired McGee standing in her living room.

"What are you doing, McGee?"

"Going for a run with you."

"I did not know that you were a runner." She hoped it didn't sound mocking, because she hadn't meant it derisively. She truly had not known that McGee ran.

"I wasn't until a few months ago," He answered simply, shrugging. "You might outpace me after a bit though."

She was unexpectedly delighted at the idea of having someone to run with, so she made a silent promise to herself not to leave her teammate behind.

"Lead the way." She motioned with her hand toward the door and fell into step behind him as they left the apartment.

"Do you have a certain route that you follow?" McGee inquired as they made their way out of the building.

"It changes depending on my mood. Do you use an iPod?"

He pointed to a nondescript black case wrapped around his right upper arm that she had not noticed before.

"Just leave one ear bud out and we can decide as we go, yes?"

He nodded. They crossed the lobby and he held the door open for her; she navigated to the desired playlist on her iPod as she led them out onto the pavement in front of her building. She waited patiently until Tim gave her the signal that he was ready to begin.

She walked a few steps and then fell into a longer stride with the ease of someone who had done the same thing numerous times; she was pleased to see that Tim fell into step easily beside her.

The early morning air was crisp and stinging against her cheeks, and the feeling was invigorating. The sidewalks were relatively empty this early, so they had to do very little zigzagging to avoid obstacles. She led them mindlessly, allowing the muscle memory of her feet to decide their path.

Ziva was surprised again to realize how well matched the two of them were. Despite their height difference they seemed to pace each other easily, and for the first time she found herself pleased at the idea of having a running partner.

She had worked hard to make it a habit of running at least three miles every morning (if not more) and had memorized the land -mark that heralded each mile marker. They were in sight of the three -mile mark when she sensed McGee beginning to tire beside her and slowed them back into a walk. She smiled over at the man next to her, unable to resist a laugh when she saw how pink his face and nose were.

"What is this deer you Americans are so fond of?" She asked as she pulled the one ear bud from her ear. "He comes on television every year and everyone laughs because his nose is red?"

"Rudolph?" He supplied.

"That is it! You look like Rudolph, McGee."

"Your nose is pretty pink too, I'll have you know."

She laughed between huffs of breath and turned them back in the direction of her apartment.

"How far have we gone?"

"By the time we return to my apartment, it will be six miles. Very impressive, Tim!"

He didn't have to voice his pride because she could see it shining in his eyes. Three miles of solid running – with no stopping and keeping a steady pace – was an admirable feat for someone who had only been running for a few months.

"You do this every morning?" He asked as he draped one arm over his head to ease his breathing.

"Yes, provided there are no work interruptions; although I do not always go the same distance."

"How do you know how far you've gone?"

"I have mapped it all out. I have done it with enough regularity now that I have simply memorized the distances."

"Tony wasn't joking when he said you run like Forrest Gump."

She managed to laugh even though her mind had instantly veered toward the subject of Tony. She could remember perfectly the haunted way he'd said her name when he saw that picture, and the black look on his face when their Jordanian friend had called to let them know he had been watching her. She didn't want to think of either of those things, however, so she made the effort to push the thoughts away and focus on the here and now.

They walked for maybe a mile, until McGee suggested that if they wanted to grab coffee before work they should probably kick it up a gear.

That was all the incentive she needed.

* * *

_**Secondary A.N: I couldn't resist a little McGiva friendship. I love their interactions, so I thought I'd throw some of it into the mix. I've never written McGee before, so I hope it passed for at least somewhat believable. :)**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note: Sorry guys, between work and school and life I've been pretty busy. I haven't forgotten about this story or my other one, just trying to find time to juggle it all. Sorry for the wait - let me know if you guys are even still interested in reading this.**_

* * *

Gibbs was seldom shaken.

He was not made of iron the way his team often seemed to think, although he had worked hard at perfecting that exact façade over the years. He was steadfast and consistent, and it truly did take a lot to rattle him – but that did not mean that it was impossible. He had been rattled before, shaken to the core so violently that it felt as though he were coming apart at the seams.

He had perfected that impenetrable, stony expression years before, however, and so the instability would come and go with none the wiser.

This time, though, he wasn't certain that his indifferent exterior would hold, or what would happen if it didn't.

Gibbs could take a lot of things in stride; he could take a lot hits without being down for the count, but he thought that this might be the one that broke him.

He had destroyed the picture he'd confiscated from McGee as soon as he'd gotten home, but the image was burned into the back of his eyeballs. The crimson splashes of blood across Ziva's pale skin was as vivid now, the next morning, as it had been in the picture. Every time he reminded himself that she was here, safe with them again in D.C, his mind would promptly point out that there was currently someone out there stalking her.

Tense and uneasy, he'd headed to work earlier than usual today. Customary coffee in one hand, he was enjoying the quiet of a still relatively empty bull pen when he'd rounded the corner and gotten a surprise: his senior field agent was already at his desk.

"Did you bother to go home, DiNozzo?" He queried as he swept past him.

"Of course, boss. Just up earlier than usual."

As much as he would have liked to lecture the other man, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He understood the sentiment, and, after all, wasn't he here earlier than usual as well? He wasn't even really surprised, truthfully; he would have been more surprised to find that Tony _wasn't_ here. After all, this was the same man who'd pitched what many would call a suicide mission to the middle of the desert to get revenge on the man they'd thought responsible for Ziva's death. Being early to work was nothing in comparison.

The two of them lapsed into silence again. Every other minute or so, Gibbs would see Tony glance up to stare at Ziva's desk out of the corner of his eye. He wondered if Tony had come up with some excuse to call her yet, or even McGee – if he hadn't, Jethro knew that he soon would. He himself had called McGee on the drive to work to get an update, but had not relaxed one bit at Tim's proclamation that the night had passed uneventfully. The longer their perp dragged this out, the more tense the situation – and all of them – were going to get.

Gibbs wasn't sure how much more tension his people could take before one of them erupted. Unfortunately, he wasn't so certain that this time it wouldn't be him. The idea that one of the men responsible for torturing one of his kids had survived to track her to D.C made him want to punch things.

He shoved those thoughts aside and turned himself to the job in front of him. He could hear the _click clack_ of Tony's keystrokes across the room, noticing that they didn't falter even when his attention wandered to his partner's desk. He spared a moment for pride: Tony was a good agent.

They must have stayed that way for some time, because before Gibbs knew it the elevator gave its telltale _ding_ and he was presented with the voices of his two junior agents.

"… They do marathons for charity all the time," McGee was saying as he and Ziva exited the elevator. "I'm sure Abby has a whole list of them. I'm serious, Ziva, you should do one!"

"A marathon, McGee? That is something like twenty three miles, yes?"

"Twenty six," He corrected. "Which would be easy for you."

"I would have to train for such a thing. I tell you what, McGee – you train with me and agree to do the marathon with me, and I will do it."

Ziva branched off at her desk then, allowing herself to smile at the stricken look on the younger man's face.

"Where's my coffee?" Tony broke in then, giving them both his best wounded puppy look and glancing back and forth between the coffees each one held.

"We didn't think you'd be here," Tim answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

Gibbs, who had remained silent, mentally noted the way Tony could disguise his worry with a few off-handed remarks. He and Tony were a lot alike in that respect: he simply denied his emotions, and Tony hid his.

At the desk next to his, Ziva had set about arranging her things; he watched out of his peripheral vision as she stowed her weapon in the top drawer of her desk and hit the switch to turn on her computer. She had just gotten here, but already he could detect the fierce determination to catch this guy in the set of her jaw. His newest agent was focused and ready to take this guy down.

He hoped she was as ready to face this as she thought she was.

* * *

She was glaring daggers at her computer screen when a body appeared in her line of vision; she could identify him by the smell of his cologne alone, but she would never tell him that. She liked the smell, and had even endeavored once to ask him what it was, but he had never answered her. She couldn't be mad – not truly – because sometimes she liked to entertain herself by trying to discern what it was.

"You smell, Tony."

"Now is that any way to talk to the person bringing you lunch?"

"You have food?" She turned away from her computer with a quick spin, nearly crashing into him in her haste. He had come to perch next to her, his butt parked on the edge of her desk. If he noticed her proximity he gave no hint; he was holding up a mass of tinfoil with a recognizable rectangular shape. How had she missed that smell? She loved that smell! "When did you leave?"

"I didn't – McPickup did."

"Then you did not bring me lunch – McGee did."

"He may have brought it to the Yard, but I brought it to you. It counts."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the glare only lasted a few seconds before she gave in to a sly smile. He held out the still warm burrito, and she tried not to snatch it out of his hands in hunger. She had been so intent on running down leads that she hadn't really paid attention to her appetite – or the time.

"Where is McGee?" She asked between bites of food.

"In the lab. He took Abby her lunch; I'm sure they're down there speaking robot speak to each other."

"Robot speak?" She repeated.

"Yeah, ya know, all that science-y mumbo jumbo they love."

"You would not dare say that to their faces."

"Sure I would. Well, maybe not Abby, but McGeek? In a heartbeat."

Ziva chuckled and relaxed into her chair. Her morning had been wrapped in varying degrees of frustration and dead ends, and only now that she allowed herself to relax a bit did she realize how tightly she was wound. They had had no communication from their Jordanian friend, and that alone was enough to make her wary. She had learned over the years that frequent harassment from suspects or psychos was much preferred to long periods of silence; silence meant something was being planned, something that usually ended badly; silence was always worse.

Beside her, Tony watched the fleeting glimpses of thoughts that whispered over her face; they never stayed long enough to tell him exactly what she was thinking, but he had gotten good over the years of deducing where some of those thoughts might lead. He had offered to take Ziva her burrito for many reasons, not the least of which was because he wanted a few moments alone with her; a few minutes to gauge how she was really handling all of this, a few moments of unguarded companionship that (he hoped) would reassure both of them.

"I'm sorry," He said then, quietly. He saw the questions in her eyes when she tilted her head to look at him, a silent request for an explanation. "For saying that you and Raquel looked alike; for giving you a connection."

"You did not make a connection, Tony," She assured, "He did, when he decided to murder that young woman."

"You do know that it's not your fault, right?"

"What?"

"Raquel Goodman's death; that's not on your hands, Ziva. You didn't kill her."

"No?"

Her question made him draw a deep breath. He wasn't surprised she thought of it that way – he knew her too well for that. Even if he hadn't known her so well, however, he would have known that she had shouldered the responsibility for this: he could practically see the weight trying to bow her shoulders inward. He knew that fight; it was one of the things that all officials of the law had in common on a universal level. Anybody who did a job like theirs for any amount of time would eventually find themselves having the same argument: was I the reason that person was dead? He had seen so many of his friends go through it, had gone through it often enough himself to recognize the signs.

"Hey," He said softly, drawing her gaze to his face, "You are not responsible for anyone's actions except your own. We'll catch this guy, Ziva, and we'll make sure that he pays for the life he took."

Ziva nodded, the barest movement of her head, but he knew that it was a sign that she acknowledged his words. "Was Abby able to get anything off the envelope he left McGee?"

"A partial thumb print, but it wasn't much help. He doesn't show up in any of our databases."

Whatever else he would have liked to say was cut off by the arrival of the mail cart. Ben, the twenty something college student who sometimes liked to ask Tony about his college athlete days, smiled and held up a manila envelope.

"Got something for you today, DiNozzo," He greeted.

"Better be my monthly addition of Sports Illustrated, Ben, or I'm coming for you."

The younger man laughed and passed him the envelope before moving away again. Ziva was leaning into him, trying to get a look at the envelope; it was an ugly brown with a line of blacked out lines down the front, and Tony recognized it immediately as an inter-office envelope. The black marks were lines through the names of the people who had used the envelope before him.

Tony groaned.

"What is it?" His partner queried.

"Nothing good," He answered as he opened it, "The only things that come in inter-office memos are reprimands or …"

… Complete and utter destruction. Mind numbing, heart crushing devastation.

All cleverly disguised as a photograph.

In the picture, she was stretched out as far as her petite body could go, bound hands extended above her head and eyes blindfolded; the position threw her ribs into stark relief, each one easily countable as they pressed against her exposed skin. She was shirtless (although not bra-less) and a man he did not recognize was sitting on top of her stomach, the burning end of a cigarette poised just a hair's breadth from the skin of her side. The man must have been torturing her for information, because the look on his face was a gruesome leer that made Tony's stomach churn. There was a small pool of blood under her bound wrists, and the brightness of the picture threw sharp light on the layers of grime and filth that covered both her and the room she was in.

The movement was what caught his attention. Pale, sickened, probably trembling on the outside to match the shivers rocking through his body, Tony looked up and caught Ziva's eyes. She was standing now, standing and moving away from him with a horror on her face that he had never seen and would never forget. She was retreating, putting distance between herself and the picture and the memories and _him_, and it was all just too much.

"BEN!"

Tony's voice was tempered steel as it expanded and rang out, reverberating off the walls and filling the bullpen with almost tangible venom. Heads snapped in their direction, but there was a burning rage in his sea green eyes that Ziva had never seen before. He was pale, that terrible picture still clutched in his white-knuckled grip, but he was locked on to finding the mail carrier. She had never feared Tony before, but if there had ever been a time when she found him truly intimidating, it would have been that moment.

"Tony," She said carefully.

"Over here, DiNozzo," Another voice said simultaneously.

Tony practically vaulted over her desk, and if Ziva hadn't been so concerned with what exactly he was planning to do to the unsuspecting mail carrier, she would have spared a few seconds of admiration for the physical prowess he displayed. As it was, she shot out behind him on quick feet as he flew across the distance that separated him from the young man with the positively terrified look on his face.

"Where did you get this?" Tony demanded loudly, waving the picture wildly through the air.

"Tony!" Ziva tried again, but her voice was lost in his demands.

"Who gave this to you? Where did it come from?"

Ziva had never seen her partner so close to coming unhinged before; she had never seen the positively feral look that now dominated his face. A small part of her registered fear, a fear that he would attack the young man he was practically shouting at that very moment. The other man – Ben, she thought his name was – seemed to share the same fear; he was so frightened he had been rendered completely immobile.

Ziva had no choice: she tensed, every muscle in her body preparing to launch her between her partner and the scared college student in front of him.

"DiNozzo!"

Gibbs' voice cut across the commotion that had erupted on the floor, through the red haze of anger that had swallowed him, and straight to the only part of Tony that was still rational.

Tony blinked several times as he wrangled himself into check. The din of the people around him slowly came into focus, as did the sight of Ziva, half-poised between him and Ben as if ready to strike; he didn't have time to make sense of that before Gibbs was striding angrily up to him, the look on his face telling Tony that he was about to get much more than a head slap.

"What the hell were you thinking, DiNozzo?" Gibbs hissed venomously, "Because from where I'm standing it looked like you were about to assault the mailman."

"I wasn't thinking, boss," He answered immediately, automatically, "I mean, I was … at first, but …"

He had been thinking, but not about what he should have been thinking about. He wasn't thinking that he needed to find out where the envelope had come from or if Ben had taken it from someone – at least, not fully. Instead, he had been thinking about the blood under Ziva's bound hands; he had been seeing the malice on that nameless man's face as he pressed a lit cigarette to the skin of Ziva's torso. He had been thinking that he would rip this building off its very foundations to find this murderous son of a bitch, and when he found him he would …

"What is in your hand, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked again, the force of the question grabbing his attention.

Tony glanced at the object in question, still clutched dangerously in one hand, and then past his boss and to his partner. He saw the ghost of her, not on that filthy floor, but the stricken look on her face as she'd backed away from him as if she'd been burned; he saw again the _shame_ that had crossed her face for just the barest hint of a second, as if she should be ashamed of what those monsters had done to her.

Everything in Ziva's body screamed at her to rip the picture from Tony's hand before he could give it up, but her muscles hesitated a millisecond to long, and she watched as her boss took the offending article from her partner.

Jethro was an understanding man; he could not always sympathize with the reasons behind some people's actions, but he could at least understand what it was that had driven them.

One look at the photo now clutched in his hand and he could not only understand Tony's reaction, but sympathize with it as well.

One look, and it took every ounce of control and sensibility in his body to keep Jethro from reacting in much the same way that his senior field agent had.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's Note: So I've been sitting on this chapter for ... let's just say, awhile. I'm still not sure I like it, but I have seriously worked on it for so long that I'm just kinda done with it. It is what it is. I wanna get on with the rest of the story, so this is the final product - I'm putting it up, and hopefully y'all don't hate it too much. Anyway, let me know if you're still out there and interested in where this is going! Sorry it's been taking me so long to update ...**_

* * *

Leon Vance liked to believe that he was not an unapproachable man; he made a point to let his Agents know that he was a firm believer in the "open door" policy. If his people had a problem, he wanted them to feel comfortable bringing that problem to him. He had learned years ago that a good boss was one who was accessible to his employees, and it was a philosophy he stuck to.

Unfortunately, there was nothing he could when one – or more – of his Agents made the command decision to keep him in the dark. Which was apparently what Gibbs had decided to do, and why Leon now found himself in the middle of the bullpen, directing everyone to go back to work while silently demanding an explanation from Gibbs.

Tony, gray around the edges and looking positively haunted, had retreated to his desk, but only after Ziva had herded him there. She had an indiscernible expression on her face, one that Vance did not often see, but it looked similar to the one her partner now wore.

"Would you like to tell me what the hell is going on, Gibbs?" Vance demanded when the crowd had dispersed. "Why was Agent DiNozzo poised to kill the mailman?"

Gibbs was king when it came to the expression "poker face"; his daily range of facial expressions consisted of two emotions: irritation and expectancy. At the moment, however, Gibbs looked downright … angry. Upset, even, and that would have been enough to catch Leon's attention.

Gibbs glanced at Tony and then back to his boss, motioning with his head for the other man to follow him. His wariness increasing, Vance allowed himself to be lead to the opposite side of the staircase.

In a low voice so that he would not be overheard, Gibbs briefed Vance as quickly as he could. He tried to play the situation down a bit, but Vance was not fooled. When Gibbs mentioned that he had placed a protective detail around Ziva after the last phone call, Vance's eyes widened in a way that let Gibbs know that he was not fooled. That was the end of his attempt to downplay the situation.

"You should have come to me immediately, Gibbs," he scolded. "Ziva is one of our own."

"You don't think I realize that, Leon?"

"She's more than just a part of your team, Gibbs," Leon stressed. "She's a member of NCIS, and it's our job to protect her. I'm placing a full protective detail …"

"No," Gibbs interjected.

"No? What do you mean, no?"

"You place anymore agents around her and this guy will only change his game, play dirtier. We can catch him, Leon, but a full detail will only make it harder. Let us do our job."

Vance took a long moment to consider. He did not like the idea of Gibbs' team trying to shoulder an investigation and a protection detail on their own; they would inevitably spread themselves thin, and that was rarely a recipe for success. On the other hand, he was of the opinion that there was not another team quite like theirs in the entire NCIS building; if there were a team who could pull this thing off, it would be them. Not to mention the fact that Agent David was a formidable weapon in her own right.

"Fine. Keep me in the loop."

Vance watched as a positively ferocious Gibbs turned on his heel and headed back to his team.

* * *

"Boss!"

McGee's voice rang out like an alarm across the small space separating his desk from that of his boss', but the spark in the younger man's eye kept Gibbs from barking at him in return.

"What is it, McGee?"

"We got him – we got the son of a bitch! Uh, pardon the …"

"What do you mean, got him?" Tony demanded, sweeping to his feet.

"Local L.E.O. noticed him at a convenience store about an hour ago, identified him from the BOLO we put out. He's being transferred to the Navy Yard as we speak."

Gibbs' eyes narrowed; he was torn between relief at knowing that they finally had a thumb on the man's movements, and disbelief.

"I do not like it, Gibbs," Ziva said quietly from his right.

A sentiment obviously shared by at least one of his Agents.

"It is too easy."

"What, you think he let himself get caught?" Tony queried as he came to stand at the edge of Ziva's desk. "Why would he do that?"

"As part of his game," Ziva answered. "He has done nothing but play with us since we first got the case. He has a reason for being caught, Gibbs."

"I believe you, Ziver, but we don't have a choice. McGee, put him in interrogation when he gets here. DiNozzo."

"Boss?"

Gibbs gave his senior agent the look that clearly meant "follow me" and then made his way to the elevator. He didn't have to check to make sure Tony was following; he caught up with him before he'd made it to the elevator. Gibbs hit the down button and waited for the doors to open.

They didn't make it more than a few inches down when he reached out and pulled the emergency stop button; Tony's face registered no surprise at the action.

"You gonna be able to handle this, DiNozzo?"

"Of course, boss. Absolutely."

"Don't let this guy know that he's gotten to you."

"He hasn't gotten to me."

Gibbs smacked him in the back of the head - hard.

"He's gotten to all of us, DiNozzo. That was the point. Our job now depends on us not letting him know it."

Hearing Gibbs admit that even he was affected by what was happening made Tony feel suddenly deflated. He was ashamed of his behavior toward Ben, of course, and had apologized to both the young man and his team; knowing that Gibbs was also affected by the pictures somehow made him more ashamed of his outburst, however. Why had he been unable to control himself? Why he had allowed that picture to short circuit his common sense?

"You care, Tony. Nothing wrong with that."

Perplexed, Tony glanced sidelong at his boss.

"Did I say that aloud?"

"Didn't have to."

Tony almost squirmed – oh he cared, all right, he just wasn't sure Gibbs realized how much and how deeply he cared. How could he, when it was something Tony had only lately come to realize himself?

He could think about that later.

Gibbs pushed the emergency stop button back in and the elevator resumed its downward motion. When they reached the bottom floor and the doors slid open, Tony received a nasty shock: an Agent stood on the other side of the door, clearly escorting a man Tony instantly recognized as the man they'd been chasing. The handcuffs were a giveaway, but the grotesque leer on his face made Tony's skin crawl; even if Tony had not made the connection right away, one look at the other man would have set off the warning bells. This was their suspect.

Tony hated him.

"We'll take him from here, Ross," Gibbs said calmly, ignoring the man in handcuffs entirely.

Ross nodded and handed the Jordanian off, looking mildly relieved to have the other man taken off his hands. The Jordanian, still smirking, stood a little in front of and between Tony and Gibbs; Tony hit the button for their floor and tried to distract himself with random movie quotes.

"You have been looking for me, yet you do not look happy to see me." His accent was even thicker than it had sounded through the phone.

Tony was nearly overwhelmed with the sudden need to keep this man out of Ziva's sight. This was a man who had been part of Saleem's web of terror, a man who they now knew to have taken part in her torture; the last thing Tony wanted to do was frog march him through their bull pen – her home.

Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a choice.

* * *

Ziva was staring at her computer screen when she heard them. She had long ago memorized the sound of her teammates' footsteps, the way they walked, and she raised her head to say something only to feel the words die on her lips.

She knew the man handcuffed in front of them; she had seen his face several times in those awful months trapped in Somalia. She remembered that gruesome leer, the malice in his eyes; all he was missing was a cigarette hanging out of his mouth to complete the picture. The sight of him filled her with too many emotions to name.

"Ah, Ziva, how nice to see you again. Have you missed me?"

"Khaled." The name came to her out of memory, out of the dark places in her mind that she had forced the memories of that time to occupy. She had not recognized his voice, but now that he was standing before her … there was no doubt who he was.

"You remember me!" he exclaimed, sounding positively delighted. "We spent a lot of time together, you and I. Of course, you were not wearing as much clothing …"

His words were cut off by the unexpected sound of crunching and an animalistic cry. In the handcuffs, one of his wrists dangled at an odd angle.

"You broke my wrist!"

"No I didn't," Gibbs said calmly. "But you keep running your mouth and I'll break the other one."

The anger on Khaled's face was overshadowed by that grin he had given her so many times before, and she remembered thinking the same thing all those months ago that she thought now: this man was perhaps one of the most disgusting human beings Ziva had ever had the misfortune of meeting.

"Such loyal _friends_ you have, Ziva." Khaled practically purred, the way he stressed the word friend making it sound strangely perverted. "Tell me, did they enjoy my pictures? It was very hard to part with them, I admit, but do not worry … I have one last surprise."

Gibbs was already strong- arming Khaled forward, away from Ziva and toward the interrogation room when Ziva called out.

"We will talk again soon, Khaled." She coated the venom in her voice with the sweetest honey, reaching for a level of sweetness that was chilling.

"Is that a promise?" The Jordanian called back.

"And a threat."

She did not care if he'd heard her answer.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's Note: What's this?! An update that didn't take months? Craziness! Thank you for all your kind words and encouragement, I'm glad you're still sticking it out with me. I suck at responding to individual reviews, but know that I appreciate y'all taking the time to leave me a note, no matter how small. With that being said I'll stop yammering now and let you go on with the chapter (I like this one!) ...**_

* * *

"Gibbs …"

"No."

"I would …"

"Are you really going to make me repeat myself, David?"

She could practically feel the steel in his tone sliding over her; she had learned long ago that Gibbs was the master of disguising his commands as questions, and yet there was still that stubborn part of her that wanted to fight it. She wanted – she could almost bring herself to say _needed_ – to be in that interrogation room when Khaled was questioned, but the silver fox would hear none of it. She was being relegated to the backseat, and she didn't like it.

She couldn't claim she didn't understand where he was coming from, though.

"I will promise not to kill him," She offered evenly.

"Taking you into that room with me puts you exactly where he wants you, Ziver. Use your head."

She was offended for only a few seconds, before the logical side of her brain kicked in and told her he was right. The man on the other side of the glass, sitting so casually in the interrogation room, had been playing with them from the very beginning; if she set foot in that room, she would be giving him an advantage, and that was the last thing they needed. Despite how it chafed at her to stay away, that was exactly what she had to do; this man had to be brought to justice, not only for the games he was playing with her team but, more importantly, for what he had done to Raquel Goodman.

"Boss," Tony and McGee started in unison. Gibbs held up a finger to silence them and shot a glare in their direction.

"Stay. Here."

His tone brooked no argument, and he swept out of the room before anyone could utter another word. His absence left the three of them standing in the observation room, Ziva closest to the glass and perfectly aware of the two men standing behind her – one perhaps a little closer than was strictly necessary. She could not guess the direction this interrogation was about to take, but she was certain that she would end up not liking it; she was even more certain that whatever Khaled had to say, she did not want her teammates – including Gibbs – to hear it. Those months in Somalia had made her unfailingly aware of the way the Jordanian operated, and she did not have a hard time recalling his love of employing psychological warfare. Whether through practice or inherent talent, Khaled was unfortunately gifted in the art; Ziva feared that whatever he had planned next was going to be decidedly worse than what he'd done so far, and that made her uneasy.

On the other side of the glass, Gibbs swept into the room with a manila folder tucked under one arm; his face was smooth as glass, the lines of his body straight and tense. He looked perfectly in control, but to eyes that knew him, he also looked ready for war.

Behind Ziva, Tony glanced fleetingly at Tim; he said nothing, but he could see his sentiment reflected perfectly on the younger man's face. Their boss was not going to waste time – the Jordanian was in for a tussle, and the only one who didn't know it was the Jordanian himself.

Khaled was smiling as Gibbs dropped himself into the chair opposite him and tossed the open folder on the table in front of him. He barely spared a glance at the photo of a dead Raquel before turning his attention back to the Gibbs; his brazen attitude and incessant leer made it wildly obvious that this was not their usual brand of suspect.

The photo of the deceased stared impassively up at the ceiling; the silence stretched long and pregnant as both men simply sat and watched one another, Gibbs' face still impassive, Khaled's twisted into a snide grin.

Tony almost wanted to smile when Khaled was the first to break the silence; there were few people in the world that could outlast a Gibbs stalemate, and it filled him with a righteous sense of pride that this man was not one of the few. The only acceptable alternative to Tony himself being part of the interrogation was knowing that the boss was handling it.

"She looks like Ziva, no?"

Tony bristled; he remembered making the same observation at the beginning of the case, and the way he'd mentally chastised himself seconds later when the comment had created a connection for Ziva that hadn't been there seconds before. He had a bad habit of speaking without thinking, he knew, but he'd wanted to kick his own ass then and there for opening his mouth. Now, hearing that same observation coming straight from the mouth of the murderer, made his stomach churn; he did not need to see her face to know that Ziva was going to internalize the young woman's death even more than she already had. Khaled had, without putting voice to it specifically, just confirmed a terrible truth: Raquel Goodman had been murdered simply because of her resemblance to a woman that she had never met.

"She did not have the same … what is it you Americans say? Fire? This woman begged for her life; little Ziva fought for hers … at first."

Tim had never heard the word "little" used in conjunction with Ziva before, and although he could not deny that she was, indeed, a petite woman (especially looking at her now, half engulfed in the shadow of Tony's body), there was something that seemed fundamentally wrong about calling her "little". Hearing her called little by anyone, but certainly by the man in the other room, made him want to squirm; Ziva was many things, but he had never considered her little – there was a strange intimacy attached to the word, almost as if he were referring to a child, and Tim suddenly found himself imagining a much younger Ziva locked in a windowless room with Khaled. The image made him want to vomit.

"Why?" It was the first word to leave Gibbs' lips since he'd entered the room.

"Why?" Khaled repeated, perplexed.

"Why did you kill her?"

The Jordanian made several _tsk_ sounds and folded his arms as he leaned into the back of the chair.

"You assume I needed a reason. She was a means to an end; she reminded me of Ziva; that is reason enough. But why don't you ask what you really want to know, Gibbs?"

"And what is it you think I want to know?"

"Why I am here – what I am planning to do with your precious little Ziva."

"You already told me."

Behind his lurid expression, Ziva could tell that Gibbs' absolute refusal to be baited was getting to Khaled. He was inspecting the older man's armor, looking for that weak spot he could exploit in order to get a rise out of him; he was fishing, and Gibbs simply refused to bite. She could see the way the challenge both infuriated and excited the Jordanian, and although she did not doubt that Gibbs could see it as well, she still felt a pressing urge to warn him.

"I'll tell you what you can do, Khaled," Gibbs started, grabbing a pen from his jacket pocket and tossing it across the table. "You can write out your confession. I'd hate to delay your vacation to one of our finest American prisons anymore than I already have."

Gibbs had just started to gather his feet to stand when the man across from him chuckled and shook his head in a way that told the older man that something else was coming. Khaled dutifully took up the pen and uncapped it, his grin aimed not at Gibbs but at the blank sheet of paper he had pulled out of the manila folder.

"You are not at all what I expected, Gibbs." Khaled's tone was jovial, as if he were having a conversation with a close friend; deep within Gibbs' steely façade, the familiarity was beginning to get to him. "Did you know that little Ziva talks in her sleep?"

This time Khaled made direct eye contact with him, and the few warning bells that had begun to sound in his head moments ago multiplied rapidly.

"She even called out, once or twice; most people do not know it, but the bottoms of the feet are particularly susceptible to wood and steel."

Without his permission Gibbs' memory replayed the moment his agents had rounded the corner of that sorry building in Somalia, Tim and Tony each supporting one arm as they half dragged Ziva out of there. She had been nearly incapable of standing on her own, and even when she had attempted to move she had only been able to accomplish something more akin to unsteady shuffling. The connection was immediate: those men – this man – had flayed the bottom of her feet to the point that she would have been unable to escape, even if she had tried.

" … You cannot escape when the first layers of flesh have been torn away," Khaled was saying, his tone technical, as though he were giving instructions. "Not that little Ziva tried to escape."

"Agent David." Gibbs corrected him through a slowly clenching jaw, but the other man ignored him.

"She was ready to die, Gibbs – and that is why we kept her alive. Do you know what it is to accept death, to wish for it, to be tortured to within an inch of it – only to be denied? That is a torture of its own, Gibbs, a torture that your little Ziva knows well."

In the opposite room, the tension in the air was so thick that Ziva could barely catch her breath. Her focus was torn between the solid waves of rage she could feel radiating so clearly from Tony, who had slowly inched closer to her until he now stood with his chest pressed deceptively gently into her back, and the slightly less potent disgust she could feel emanating from McGee. Both of these things, however, were quickly being relegated to the back of her mind as she took in the subtle changes she could see in her boss from this side of the glass. Gibbs had lost control only a handful of times in their years together, but the explosions were always of such magnitude that they remained imprinted in her memory; she could see the signs now, as the bomb built ever quicker within him. Whether he knew it or not, Khaled was succeeding.

The Jordanian was still talking, even as his pen scratched rhythmically across the paper in front of him.

"… And still she would not talk. Can you understand such loyalty, Gibbs? Such a rare thing to find these days."

"You've come all this way to get revenge, Khaled, and yet you don't even know who's responsible for the death you're so keen to avenge." Gibbs' voice had started to rise, and he found himself leaning across the edge of the table.

"On the contrary, Gibbs. As I told you before, there is better punishment than death; death is, in fact, too easy. Well, your death, anyway. But hers? I think you'll find that a different subject entirely."

"Tony." Ziva said his name in the same moment that he began to pull away, her voice full of warning. Tim, too, seemed to sense the impending explosion, because he had started to step toward the door.

Gibbs had gotten to his feet behind the table.

"Is she like a daughter to you, Gibbs? Did you ever wonder whose clothes she was wearing when you found her? Do you know what happens to _daughters_ in a camp full of men who …"

Gibbs lunged for the Jordanian. One iron fist clenched around the collar of his shirt as he ripped him forcefully from the chair, the table skidding sideways as Gibbs pulled the younger man to him. Khaled was laughing; he held his broken wrist up in front of his face in a sign of submission, but stopped laughing seconds later when Gibbs grabbed that same wrist and twisted.

The door to the interrogation room crashed open; Tony materialized in front of him, simultaneously telling him to let go of Khaled and grabbing the same man to drag him across the room, out of Gibbs' reach. Gibbs was aware of Tim saying something, but the words were indistinct, and then Ziva was in front of him, her dark eyes locking immediately with his.

"He is lying, Gibbs," She said softly, calmly. "The clothes were not mine, that is true, but the other part …"

"Ziver."

"I endured many things, Gibbs, but not that."

He believed her; he could see the truth of her words in her eyes, in the lines of her face, but it did not quench his bloodlust. He wanted to snap Khaled's neck and be done with it – damn the justice system, damn the trial, damn everything. The Jordanian deserved to die, and at that moment Gibbs would have been more than happy to oblige.

Ziva stepped away to retrieve the paper that lay abandoned on the table, understanding without asking that her boss needed a minute to collect himself. She pulled the table back to its original position and then scooped up the folder, glancing over the slanting writing of what she had _thought_ was a confession.

It wasn't.

Instead of a confession, Khaled had written the same things over and over again: her license plate number, and the exact address of her apartment. The only words were at the bottom of the page, the same sentence written in both English and Arabic: _Her life is forfeit._


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author's Note: Hi! Hope you're still there ... and that you enjoy this chapter! Thank you for all the reviews/favorites/alerts - I really appreciate it! Much love ...**_

* * *

His hand swept confidently over the wooden rib, the small sanding tool he held making soft scraping noises as it caught on the burs and erased them. He felt each one as a slight hesitation, a backward pull that went against the current; thin strips of wood curled and fell away as he worked, filling the half darkened basement with the scent of fresh cut trees. Gibbs loved that smell, loved the process of refining every inch of what would eventually turn into a boat, but tonight even this most trusted routine could not quell the storm within him. Khaled's voice would not be silenced; his words insisted on floating to the forefront of Jethro's thoughts in disjointed snippets of memory, sometimes followed by older ones. Try as he might, Jethro could not get the better of himself.

One hand continued to slide across the wooden beam as the other reached for the jar of whiskey he'd poured himself; the amber liquid burned a trail down his throat as he took a swig, and the feeling helped to ground him.

… _When the flesh has been torn away …_

Khaled's voice reverberated silently in his ears; apparently, the whiskey only had a momentary effect. He saw her again; saw that shuffling, shambling walk as she tried to keep her feet beneath her despite Tony and Tim's assistance. Her face had been tired, her expression disbelieving, and yet he had not seen her wince once in pain. Had he missed it, that evidence of her pain? Or had she simply been too numb, too beaten, to acknowledge that any of the pain remained?

… _Can you understand such loyalty? …_

He thought of how he'd stood in this very basement eight years ago, staring impassively down the barrel of a high powered rifle and into the face of a man whose only goal was to leave him motionless on the floor; he had felt no fear of his apparent impending death, and yet, when the shot had rung out, he had found himself still standing. In front of him, a pool of blood had already begun to coalesce under the lifeless form of Ari Haswari. Jethro's savior had turned out to be none other than Ziva, Ari's half sister – a woman who had saved him not for the virtue of his character, but on the strength of her own. Being asked if he could _understand_ her brand of loyalty was just as perverse as asking him if he could _understand _what it was like to lose a family member; the question had infuriated him just as much then as it did now, his anger not at all lessened by the several hours that had elapsed since his confrontation with Khaled.

Despite the outcome, Gibbs had been right to leave Ziva in Israel; he did not feel responsible for the decisions that had led her to Somalia. Just as he knew that it had not been wrong to leave her, however, he knew that avenging her – whether it was his idea or Tony's – had not been wrong either. In fact, he had never understood his senior field agent better than he had the moment Tony had proposed the desert adventure; Gibbs had known, with the certainty of one tragedy survivor witnessing the downward spiral of another, that Tony had made no provisions for his return – alive or dead. His focus had been vengeance, and nothing else. Gibbs had watched Tony teeter on that edge – stare into the abyss that held Shannon and Kelly and Kate and Jenny, even that part of Ziva that had indeed died in Somalia – Gibbs had watched and realized too late that rule twelve had not existed for Tony for a long time.

Oh yes, Gibbs could understand such loyalty: it was the loyalty that had driven Ziva to take the life of her brother in order to save his; the loyalty that had flown Tony to the other side of the world on what could only be acknowledged as a suicide mission; and the loyalty that even now encouraged Gibbs to murder a man in cold blood. They could be the damn _poster children_ for loyalty.

He took another pull of whiskey from his jar and had just set it down again when he heard Tony descending the stairs.

"Ziva?"

"Showering." Tony pulled a bar stool out of the corner and set it down not far from where Gibbs was standing, extending one leg straight out and tucking the other up on the bar as he plopped himself down.

Gibbs nodded slightly and set down his sanding tool. He stepped over to the workbench, dumped a handful of wood pencils out of a jar, and poured a second glass of whiskey. He handed the jar wordlessly to the other man, who accepted without a word; he tossed back half the jar in the first draught.

"Well?" Gibbs asked when he was done.

"Dogs swept her place twice." Tony answered matter-of-factly.

"S.W.A.T?"

"Same. Nothing, boss."

"Nothing moved? Missing?"

Tony grimaced before answering. "He left her a gift – her Star of David."

Gibbs narrowed icy blue eyes at the other man, soundlessly alerting him that he knew there was something being left out.

"It was covered in blood, boss, and I don't need Abby to tell me that it was hers."

Gibbs emptied the contents of his jar and poured a few more fingers of whiskey; he did the same for Tony when he thrust his empty glass into Gibbs' line of sight.

Tony watched, momentarily perplexed, as his boss handed him back the Mason jar – full once again - and set to rummaging around the work area. He had just procured another empty jar and set to pouring a few fingers of whiskey into it when Tony became aware of Ziva's footsteps descending the stairs behind them.

One day, Tony vowed, he would figure out how in the hell his boss did that.

"Am I interrupting male bonding time?"

Her voice was soft in the quiet of the basement, and not for the first time in the last few days Tony took a moment to appreciate the sound – and that she was still around for him to do so.

In response to her question, Gibbs handed her the third jar, which she took without even a look of mild surprise. She didn't hesitate to bring the jar to her lips, and Tony was struck with the realization that if there had ever been a time when their team needed a few drinks, now would be it.

"How long must I be kept under house arrest?" Her tone was more resigned than angry.

"Until Director Vance is assured of your safety," Gibbs replied, his answer repeated word for word from the conversation he'd had earlier with Vance.

"I was afraid of that."

They lapsed into silence then. Gibbs rested one hip against the workbench and kept his peace as he observed his agents: Tony was staring intensely into his whiskey, the gears in his mind spinning so quickly that Gibbs could hear them whirring from where he stood; Ziva had moved to the boat and tucked herself up under the skeleton, and while there was no whirring to be heard, Gibbs could still see her thinking.

Jethro was struck once again with the thought of how young they still were, how very easily they could all be his children by birth and not just choice. It was easy to forget, in their day to day routine, that his agents were in many ways still just trying to find their way in life; easy to forget, and yet quick to come to mind when a situation got hairy, as this one had.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in a gulp – he was tired, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him and trying to lead him down roads he did not want to travel.

"I'm going to bed," he announced then. He set the now empty jar on the work bench and made his way to the stairs, tossing over his shoulder as he did so, "Not too late, you two."

The basement stayed quiet for some time after Gibbs' departure. Ziva, content to trace the patterns of the wood with her eyes, felt no inclination to fill the silence with small talk. She could feel Tony's eyes on her but did not care to press him for information; if he wanted to share what he was thinking, then he would do so.

"I'm sorry."

The words caught her off guard; when she turned her head to observe her partner, he was watching her with a fierce intensity that she had become accustomed to lately. The look served to pique her curiosity and, more privately, make her stomach jump in a very specific way – no matter how fiercely she chided herself for such a reaction.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"Nothing. Everything."

She arched an eyebrow in consternation. "Has the whiskey gone to your head, Tony? That did not make sense."

He ignored her jibe and set his glass down, looking away from her briefly to do so, and let out a tiny sigh before reengaging her. When he did, he found that she had moved into a sitting position, her legs hanging over the edge of the table top that the boat skeleton sat on. Her hair, which had been left to dry naturally, was mussed and curled deliciously around the planes of her face; she looked perfectly at ease, and yet he knew that she could spring into action at the slightest provocation.

"I'm sorry for the way I reacted, earlier." He wasn't sure where he was going with this – he only knew that the pressure in his chest was at a breaking point, and that something had to be said.

"You do not need …"

"I wasn't finished." He interrupted her gently but firmly, determined to get the words out. "I'm sorry for what you went through in that desert, Ziva; sorry for what those men did to you – that you suffered for so long. And I'm sorry that you have to relive it all now."

Ziva made no response; she did not know what to say. Tony's face was drawn, serious in a way that would have choked her reply even if his words had not. The team – her team – had saved her; they had traipsed into another world, very unlike their own, to avenge what they had thought to be her death. Not one of them had anything to apologize for, in her eyes, and it hurt her heart to think that her partner might feel guilty in some way for what she had endured.

"Tony, you have nothing to apologize for. Please do not think about it anymore. I am here, and I am safe."

"Don't think about it? Lately it's all I can think about, Ziva – you, alone, probably thinking every day that you were about to die …"

Tony stood and began to pace in the small area in front of her, his agitation charging the air around them. The images that he had been restraining all day were coming at him in full force now, crowding in upon one another in a desperate effort to command his attention. Rationally, he knew that Ziva was seated just a foot or so away from him, safe in his boss' basement, but he kept seeing another version of her: battered and bruised in a dirty building somewhere in Africa.

"I do not want to be seen as a victim, Tony." Her voice was hard, fierce even. "I do not need to be saved."

Her words stopped his pacing. He pulled himself from his morbid thoughts and looked to where she had been seated only to find her standing, her stance strong but not abrasive. She was looking him straight in the eye, every bit the warrior, the soldier … everything except the damsel in distress. Did she think he was calling her weak?

"I don't see you as a victim." He said it easily, honestly, because it was the truth. "You're a survivor, Ziva, and I've never seen you as anything less. You're one of the strongest people I've ever known. But … is it so terrible to need saving, once in awhile?"

The question floored her. Was it terrible? Of course it was! Needing to be saved meant needing someone else; it meant opening the door to disappointment, to the soul crushing realization that no one could be relied upon – not truly. Needing to be saved would make her a victim – it would make her remember, all over again, how her own father had sent her into the desert to die … and not sent a single person to look for her when it appeared she had. She could not be that person – would not be.

Her expression had closed immediately at his question, and he could see that she didn't understand what he was trying to say. She thought he was asking her to be less – less than a fighter, less than pillar of strength that she was. Asking her to be vulnerable, to be needy, was in direct opposition to everything she had fashioned herself to be; it went against the grain of her character, and he could see it in the way her jaw clenched just so.

"That wasn't what I meant, Ziva. Well, I mean, it was, but …"

"Just say whatever it is that you are trying so hard not to, Tony."

"Why is it wrong that I should want to save you?" He blurted out the words before he could give himself a chance to censor them. "If you need it, I mean? What's wrong with wanting to do that for you, Ziva? Why shouldn't I want to be that person?"

She was so surprised her heart skipped a beat. Sure, they were partners, they had each other's backs, but this went deeper than that. This went to another place entirely – a place of familiarity and intimacy that they had barely dipped their toes in.

"You are serious?"

It was the wrong thing to ask, and she knew it immediately: his eyes narrowed and he turned away, putting literal and physical space between them. A part of her brain was screaming at Ziva to grab his arm, call his name, anything to get his attention, but she stayed silent and rooted to her spot. There was something in his question that both terrified and thrilled her, to the point that she felt unable to fully process whatever information she felt she was missing. Surely he had been asking something else? Had she misunderstood? No – she couldn't have; his question was layered, or her name was not Ziva David. Did he know that he'd asked such a question? Had he meant to ask it?

Was he trying to cross that invisible line they had spent so much dancing around?

By the time she realized that he had started up the steps and out of the basement, it was too late.

"Tony …"

"Forget I said anything. I'll see you in the morning."

She was still reeling long after the sound of his footsteps faded away.


End file.
